The Fastball That Changed My Life

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The pitcher leaned forward, his spikes digging into the dark brown soil of the pitcher’s mound. His gloved left hand rested on his knee. His right arm, his throwing arm, was partially hidden behind his back. Sweat rolled down his nose as he leaned forward, waiting for the next batter to take his position beside home plate.

It was the top of the fifth inning, two outs, nobody on base. The first two batters had struck out – just like all their teammates in the previous four innings. They couldn’t touch his fastball. No way, no how. He felt good. Loose. His mind in total focus.

The third, and likely final batter of the inning, took his cue and nervously began to make his way from the on-deck circle to home plate. There was no breeze to speak of. The clock struck 1 p.m. The hottest part of that July Iowa day was upon him and his team. His coach shouted encouragement as he marched to almost certain failure. It appeared that no one could get a piece of this guy.

The pitcher waited calmly, his fingers automatically finding the perfect resting place on the red laces of the pristine white game ball. The ball was pristine because it had come into the rotation just two batters earlier, and despite a couple hopeful swings, no one had even come close to connecting bat to ball. So far, its gleaming white leather cover was unmolested. But that would soon change.  

The No. 3 batter stepped into the box. The catcher assumed his position behind the plate. He didn’t waste any time. He knew his pitcher was in a groove and he didn’t want to upset his timing. The catcher flashed his index finger straight down. He wanted the fastball. The same pitch he’d been calling for all day. And why? Because it was working. For five straight innings it was three up and three down. His pitcher may just have been an eighth grader, but he threw the kind of heat that batters just couldn’t touch.

I was a fill-in umpire that day. I was a junior at Osage Community High School. I loved baseball and I looked forward to the occasional opportunity to work behind the plate.

From my vantage point, perched behind the catcher’s right shoulder, the game was a snoozer. Three up, three down. Three up, three down. If you liked pitching duels, this was the game for you. If you liked to see action on the field, you were bored stiff.

To make matters worse it was hot – real hot. The kind of hot that makes every Iowan wonder why they choose to live here. On top of that, I was strapped into a black, inflatable umpire’s chest protector and regulation Rawlings umpire’s mask. The gear was necessary, but stifling, even on a cool day – which today wasn’t.

I was miserable. I’d sweated through my shirt by the second inning. I wondered if I really needed to wear all this stuff. Would it be worth trading comfort for safety? It turned out my answer was just 70 ft. away.

Batter No. 3 was in the box. The pitcher took his signal, nodded to the catcher to confirm he agreed, wound up and zoom! Strike one. I don’t think the batter even saw the ball go past.

The catcher nonchalantly tossed the ball to the mound. The process was repeated. Signal, nod, windup and zoom! Strike 2.

Except for the fact this was a great pitching exhibition, it was boring game. Two guys were playing catch and all the rest of us could do was stand there and watch. I think the boredom and sense of deja vu that came with each pitch even lulled the catcher to sleep.

The pitcher received the ball and repeated his well-worn process. Signal, nod, windup, zoom!

For the first time all day, the ball didn’t find its mark in the strike zone. Its trajectory was too high. The catcher had to reach up above his shoulders to intercept the errant fastball – effectively blocking my view. But instead of another expert catch, the catcher forgot he had an umpire behind him and did the unthinkable. He dropped his arm.

In a split second I went from a catcher’s mitt obstructing my view to having a fastball smash me smack-dab square in the mask!

The force of the impact knocked me backward and into a spin. I was a real-life Charlie Brown. My mask, cap and glasses all flew off, each going a different direction. When I stopped spinning I dropped to one knee and took stock of the situation. No broken nose, no cuts, no nothing! I was alright! In the span of one baseball pitch I’d gained a new-found respect for protective gear.

Now I had to go back to managing the game. The moment of truth. To know me is to know I had a serious temper problem when I was a teenager. Anything could set me off. And when I went, I went big. I’m still embarrassed about some of the fits I threw more than 30 years ago.

Until that moment I was just hot, sweaty and irritable. Now I’d been assaulted by the stupidity of an eighth grader. On top of that, I heard the crowd laughing. They thought it was funny! The stage was set for an epic meltdown. But something strange happened. A calm came over me. A calm like I’d never felt before.

Divine intervention? Perhaps.

The catcher was standing at the plate with his back to me, clearly trying to avoid eye contact. I took a deep breath, looked around and found my glasses, hat and mask. And then I surprised myself. I called time out and walked a few steps toward the backstop, just close enough so the crowd could hear me. I signaled for the catcher and his coach to join me.

The coach trotted right out. The catcher walked over, slowly, head down. He knew he’d done wrong. The coach asked if I was alright. I assured him I was OK. Then I looked the catcher in the eye and said, “Coach, I need you to explain to your catcher that his No. 1 job in this game is to protect his umpire. If he does that again he’s out of the game.”

The coach smiled and said, “No problem, Ump.” I left him to it and walked to home plate. As I bent down to brush the plate clean I heard the coach verbally chewing the kid up one side and down the other.

Justice had been served – and I hadn’t lost my temper. Not even a little bit.

I was smiling under the facemask a moment later as I signaled to the pitcher and yelled, “Play ball.”

I wasn’t smiling because the catcher got chewed out. I was smiling because for the first time in my young life, I responded to adversity with calm and maturity. It was a great feeling.

I’d like to report that I never lost my temper again. I can’t. But I can say I’ve been a sports official of some sort all my life and I’ve never lost my temper in a game – no matter how contentious the situation.

Each morning when you wake up you never know what fate has in store. All you know is things are going to happen. Those things are usually small. But sometimes they’re big. And sometimes they change your life. That fastball on that summer day was a milestone for me. It marked the day I started to take charge of who I was and who I wanted to be.

Thank God, and thank you, Rawlings!

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